glory
by phriendly11
Summary: ...there are moments in your life.... (post ep for"Dead Drop")


glory

by: hillary (aliasfanfiction@hotmail.com) http://sop.diary-x.com

rated: pg-13

spoilers: for "Dead Drop"

classification: angst

distribution: cm of course, all others drop me a line

disclaimer: lemme check- nope, i'm still not an owner of anything alias

summary: a little stream of consciousness, a little lowercase madness, a lot of angst.

:glory:

there are times in ones life when everything becomes a mistake. one after another, a domino effect of mishaps, miscalculations, misplaced trust.

this has been one of those times. 

imagine me, if you can: sixteen. perched on the side of a fence or some other sort of outdoor apparatus. west virginia in the middle of the night with fireflies and enough mosquitoes to give you red, splotty itchy bastards all over your legs in the morning. me: totally nonchalant, bone tingling nervous, waiting for whatever would come next. it was the unexpected pleasure of not knowing then, of longing for answers in the middle of the night but taking the slow route to get to them. abstract, but then again not so abstract.

but that was then, and despite the fact that i have a sudden memory of hot summer heat and electric nerve endings there is nothing to imply that that recollection is important.

'strange how you never forget some things', is what i say.

'it's because you don't forget anything, not really'. he retorts, thoughtfully chewing a french fry before continuing. mcdonalds. greasy, salty goodness straight from the box, virginal yellow with not a drop of catsup. or was it ketchup, not important. 'it's how hypnotherapy works, going into all those little storage files in your mind."' he thinks i mean my mother, thinks that maybe making memories clinical fact, it might somehow make the past any bit easier. 

right. it doesn't. a nod and a sigh, and i can remember her, smiling face and straight long hair swept up in a perfect chignon. smiling, telling me "good –night" and kissing me on the forehead. i used to have nightmares where in them she wouldn't be breathing. her lips cyanotic, eyes glued shut in permanent repose.  even after a million seconds nothing was ever able to stop that unerring variable. you can quit now...

you can quit now, but it is just one of those moments.

she sits behind a series of doors and locks and buzzers that let her know when anyone is coming, from stage one to two to three. i don't think it is terribly important to go into details, after all, it is all about the twists and the turns and the mystery of everything. all about the show, glamorous details, sickening little tidbits of information. the whole process had become way too complicated; it only compounded the exhaustion associated with the event of seeing her behind shiny, polished glass. 

i remember her , but maybe  i never forgot, which should make more sense, it should.

but things keep not making sense. waking up in the morning, this now seems abstract. watching the clock on the wall and making sure my legs are moving is the only thing i can manage to focus on and sometimes i even forget to swallow. get so caught up that the only thing i can see is this and it and her, and then him, and it becomes too much for me.

i'm lost. threw my map to the wind and got entirely relocated, standing in the middle somewhere, paralyzed and unable to move. i've never wanted to love so much in my life, and the entire concept of that is entirely altogether too fuzzy to decipher.

change never asked for permission, and it seems like it ought to have now. sent me a letter or something, a forewarning that my life was about to turn upside down. i would have been more prepared for the reality that change elegantly manifested.

my mother. my father. will. vaughn. 

the reality, too much. that is sort-of simple, the admittance. but it doesn't change that one unerring fact, that life continued. despite the obvious, despite the hidden, i am still expected to show up at credit dauphine and lie, lie, lie to everyone i see and pretend that less than twenty four hours ago my mother tried to blow me into tiny little bits.

and then, on top of everything, there is sloane.

"you don't look well, sydney." sloane from across the hallway, hands disappearing into his pockets.  

'i'm just..."

he thinks he understands, and i can see it in his eyes, the way he looks at me with glassy stillness on the surface of those endless pools of absolutely fucking nothing.

in a sense- private, quiet, i blame him. i wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for him, wouldn't be here if he hadn't taken some special interest in jack & irina's daughter. in a sense i think I've been a project for him and emily, and now with her gone he's taken to thinking that he is some authority on my emotions and my innermost thoughts.

'i'm just having a hard time.' understatement, but honestly, he expects nothing less.

it seems like that ought to be too little, but to sloane the admission is too much. he's sad about his wife and i'm a little sad about his wife and a lot of other things and it endears him to me. he gives me a week off of work, says i should get some sleeping pills and it gets left at that.

so i leave sd-6, without hesitation, and the hardest time ever becomes finding my keys. the parking garage is series of ghostly echoes as i rummage through my purse, bringing up everything and nothing that even closely resembles metal. this is evidence that my life is falling apart- maybe i blame it on the fact that i was almost murdered by my mother yesterday or maybe it is because nothing makes sense anymore.

so i can't sleep at night and eating seems like something extraneous and my heart feels like a black hole, threatening to devour everything in it's vicinity whether i like it or not.  i realize that while this suffering is so well worth it, the only thing i can possibly imagine is what it would be like if i actually had sleeping pills.

hands close around keys and i sigh with relief, thankful that i am getting out of this concrete hell, onto the expressway, down the street to my apartment.

times are getting desperate at the bristow abode, and it is not enough that everything i do sends out a sos. will is first to pick up on the distress signals. comes to my door with a paper bag filled with french fries, no ketchup. it's ketchup, not catsup. we hadn't spoken to each other much in three weeks and i think he is still a little scared of me.

'don't you think that your handler is a little young for such an important job?' the fries have diminished in number, leaving red smears over the waxy yellow paper, a trail of processed tomatoes. 

i look up at him, complete with an arched eyebrow. 'no, don't.'

'and i know he gave you that picture frame. isn't that against the rules –against protocol, i mean?'

biting my lip, i look past will. he's got the reporter-look on his face, mixed with something that was a close relative to jealousy. 'what do you know about cia protocol, will?'

'your dad told me all about it.' 

simple enough, there were tons of things to tell. a million speculations, but probability leads me to believe that there is only one thing worth telling about protocol.

'i see.' it's a heavy sigh that i let follow, right then and there, consistent and in and out and thoughtful, too. it's the only testimony i'm giving anything.

'he said he disapproved of your relationship with vaughn. said the two of you were getting  too close.' will squinted a little, eyes locking on mine and not letting it go.

'i don't agree with that.' simple, try a french fry. salty sting on my tongue and will meets my eyes finally and i see what he's been keeping there. 

'well. if you ever want to talk about it -' painful whisper and much clearing of the throat. 'i'll be here for you'

it seems like i should be glass here, should be breaking on the floor into a thousand million pieces, but i am stock still stupid and i know he wants to still be more than he is, all opposite angles and not at all the right thing.

i can remember, you know, thinking once. thinking about green eyes and a fingertouch, and the fragments, the instances, the please please please. but then i see her almond-colored eyes bleeding everything else out, including him, his hands, his eyes.

it is a dream, and it is nothing. floating in a netherworld, wrapped around a ribbon of lies, tightly bowed and stacked and forever shoved away in the back of some shelf. a rubber band around the center and i don't want to think about it anymore.

can you imagine me? sixteen, and in the middle of nowhere with this boy i hardly knew and the only thing i could think about was the fact that i had no clue whatsoever how to kiss. i was hoping it would be less obtrusive and more self explanatory. knees knocking heart pounding, and i was almost there when…

compartmentalized. no one forgets anything, and will happens to be right. extractions from a useless vault of mottled information, irregularities and check marks and things permanently wanting to be remembered or completed, left half done. sixteen, and i fell right off that fence, backwards and into the grass with a less than silent thud and a broken collarbone.

an unsuccessful endeavor, but the whirlwind, the huge large barrage of emotion, it is fresh. tattooed on my soul and less than forgotten.

as is this.

'no. i can't.' doleful confession, eyes downcast and away from him. hands closing around another french-fry.

the phone is ringing. distraction from the ultra-heavy will conversation, first conversation with substinance  in two weeks and i'd singlehandedly managed to fuck that up, too. cell in my palm i turn to the side and answer with a feeble hello. all that bullshit about woman with strength and forced kindness is out the window. try waking up every morning and seeing a murderer staring back at you, my own reflection, screaming death, most close relative to a woman that had killed 12 cia agents and had tried to blow up a few more.

hardened lines, hardened edges, hallowed eyes boring holes in the center of my forehead. realizing all the people that she has single-handedly put to death in almost ritual fashion. bang, bang, bang and your heart will stop beating and…

'hello.'

'joey's pizza?' 

i need to tell vaughn and the cia lackeys that the 'joey's pizza' thing needed to go. the callers' voice never changed but in my subconscious, i began to associate it with…

'wrong number' and when i hang up the phone will is gone. french fries litter the top of the table, and no, i am not foolish and that does affect me and why should it not? gone, and it is really all for the better because i'm supposed to meet vaughn in a half-hour and we are supposed to be talking about my mental prowess and i'm supposed to not be still dealing with something i can't change. 

scoop up remains off counter. toss in bag and leave. mental pep-talks about getting the game face on and you're a spy damnit, and will and your mothers betrayal  are really not important.

really.

not important. so driving is a distraction and pulling into the gravel is a distraction, and all of the moments leading up to this one are a distraction, and i pull open the door and for a moment, like one of those trip out blinding sessions of light and dark i imagine that he is not standing there. and it's enough to make me stumble backwards and feel my heart fall.

'sydney' one voice. vaughn. handler, alone, this warehouse needs to be on the list of things that need to be permanently abolished. the darkness is getting to me, the steel cage effect, damp corners, empty boxes. 

'sorry, i got stuck on the-'

'they moved her while we were still on the flight back.'

is that enough? you can quit now, because my knees are weak and there is this cottony like foam in the back of my throat. can't move, can't breathe, can't think. you can quit now.

'w-wh-whwwhhhhhat?' it sounds like that, hiccupping and breathing in and wanting to grab something desperately.

remember: west virginia, the moon in a sliver over my head and i can remember, i can remember. 

'they moved her. took her to a secret facility and you never have to see her again-'

see, i happened to expect something else. gone. before i could confront her, before i could ask her why, why, why; they took her.

it's a miracle that i've stood as long as have. felt lightheaded the whole time, and the rush of everything flying back to me…murder and how could you and if i think about it a really long time i see that i might have actually loved her again, eventually.

'where?' flatly, i ask. he gives me that look: tight lips, eyes accusing. 

'omega-17 classified. i don't know, and i have no way of finding out'

'vaughn.' nothing else. 

'your father might know. but i don't get the impression that he'll be telling, do you?'

it's a question i'm not equipped to answer. 'i – i don't know.'

'it's for the best, sydney. she lied to us, put you and the team at risk-'

tears well in my eyes, unbidden, and i no longer have the power to wipe them away. 'she was my mother. my mother.'

his eyes fill with a sadness, tinged with regret as he watches me, his hands opening and closing into fists. he's powerless, i'm immobile, and despite an inner desire to have him comfort me, i cannot move.

'i'm sorry.' i say, voice weak. 'i'm sorry to have dragged you into this-'

'no, no sydney. don't apologize. i thought it would be better if you heard it from me first, before the debriefing. that way,if you needed to-'

raising a hand weakly, i shake away his words. 'i just need a second, vaughn.'

a second before i break. one last thing gone, taken away- never knew how much i wanted her to mean to me, needed her to be there, needed to say something that mattered, one last time. 

'i don't want to leave you alone-'

'no. it's okay. it's for the best if i just, if i just-' a look crosses his face as i begin to cry openly, the agonized sound of a sob cloying around my throat, up to the surface.

'syd-'

'please, vaughn. just a second,okay.' one last look and then he passes me, walks by with shuffled steps. 

you can quit now.

back of my head and i stand there a long time. alone. filled with these thoughts of mutilated pieces of my past, some mental/physical/spiritual surgery that cloys up the room with memories. there's so much i didn't know, so much i chose to ignore.

the air in the warehouse is stagnant, but everything rushes past. remember, west virginia, and if things had been different.

and the mistakes that blend with regret to make the most bittersweet of emotions…

this is one of those times.

:glory:

a/n: special thanks to the darling goddess that is jess. who I will always worship, no matter what schools she applies to, no matter what her GRE scores or all that damn scholastic bs that occupies just too much of her time—she's way too smart for ANY school, damnit. and deserves all that her little heart desires because she ROCKS JUST THAT HARD.

also thanks to fred, who didn't beta this or anything, i just thank her for being cool, and for inspiring me to write strange things in lowercase and semi stream of consciousness.

feedback: is always savored like hot cocoa on a really cold night. 


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